


Fine

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 01:03:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16316147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Some days, John just needed to walk. When the clinic had been fine, his lunch fine, the weather fine...it was all so fine he could hardly stand it.





	Fine

Some days, John just needed to walk. When the clinic had been fine, his lunch fine, the weather fine...it was all so fine he could hardly stand it.

John felt the restlessness rise up in him as he shrugged on his coat and bade farewell to the nurse-receptionist. His leg twinged, his fingers flexed and he felt himself striding purposefully and aimlessly around London. The similarity between his gait and the marching drills of basic training were not lost on him, but he ignored it. He was fine.

Fine.

The irony was not lost on John that on those days when he tried hardest to hide his mood, Sherlock seemed to understand him the most clearly. Those were the days John would come in late, apprehensive about what Sherlock would say, barely speaking to his flat mate with a tight smile and a heartfelt wish not to be asked where he’d been. And Sherlock, who never understood why John was angry when the milk ran out, or there were no clean plates, or Sherlock ran off without explanation at a crime scene, would say nothing.

He might pick up his phone and text someone; dinner would arrive soon after, chicken tikka masala and garlic naan, John’s favourites. Or he would pour Scotch into a heavy tumbler, placing it beside John’s chair for when he inevitably sank down, wincing as his leg protested the movement.

Occasionally John headed straight for the bathroom or his bedroom without speaking to Sherlock; word stuck in his throat, unable to navigate around the big ball of not-fine collecting at the back of his palate. The strains of violin, soft and slow, would float through the walls, soothing his nerves on those nights, and more than anything, they gently dissolved the lump in his throat.

Paradoxically John’s most treasured moments came - though he would never admit this - on the worst nights. The nights he couldn’t even make it up the stairs without pausing, cursing his leg and the tears in his eyes with equal measure. Gritting his teeth, knowing Sherlock could hear him. At first he’d worried Sherlock would be impatient, dismissive of his difficulties. Then when enough of these nights had come to pass, John found his curses shifting, becoming fervent pleas for Sherlock to notice that tonight was a Danger Night and do what he did.

Those nights were nightmare nights, every time without fail. John would struggle up to his bedroom and onto his bed, fighting the bitterness of ‘Why me?’, rolling under the duvet in his pants and vest without even brushing his teeth. He knew the pain in his leg was real, even if the injury was not. In the dark, tears would spill out, heaving sobs wracking the body that had betrayed John Watson’s adventurous spirit and left him here, crying alone in bed at half nine in the evening.

Inevitably he fell asleep, and the tigers came for him in his dreams, viscera and sand, screams and whimpers and his sheer inability to save good men from drowning in their own blood.

The panic was real, cold sweat beading on his forehead as he gasped himself awake, shaking with fear, struggling to breathe.

Only with the slow tread up his stairs did John’s breathing ease. The first night he had not heard, and the hesitant turn of his doorknob sent a bolt of surprise through him, adrenalin halting his tears and tensing his muscles.

Now he knew better and his body sagged with relief as Sherlock entered, closing the door carefully behind him. Sherlock paused a beat before stepping forward. They always moved the same way, a gentle choreography of bodies without words.

Sherlock would sit on the edge of the bed, one large hand landing on John’s shoulder, heavy and grounding and warm.

John, desperation tearing at his veins, would turn into Sherlock’s hip, curling into a ball like a small child, the hand sliding around to settle against the back of his neck.

Shuddering breaths slowed, tremors subsided and John felt the calm surround him once again.

The first time, Sherlock has shifted his weight as though to leave, perhaps believing John to be asleep. Without a word, John has snaked one arm over Sherlock’s narrow hips, holding him there, silently begging him to stay.

Now, Sherlock knew. When John sighed - not a heavy sound, but the clear finish of his panic - Sherlock slid under the blanket. He allowed John’s arm to rest over his ribs, sliding his long arm around John’s shoulders, holding him close.

This was more than fine.


End file.
